Ksenia Rychtycka

There wasn’t much he could fit
in the wagon after Anna

and the children clambered
into the back, brown mare

leading him west past wooden church,
schoolhouse and the little footbridge

where he’d stroked Anna’s hair
for the first time, hand shaking.

Oh, the absurd joy of youth,
the house he’d built still a dream

in his heart. Now his bees
were in old Danylo’s care. They’d be back

in a few weeks, he promised, two months
at most. The wagon lumbered over dirt roads,

high into the green Carpathians, away
from familiar words and creeks, a few gold coins

and jars of honey packed tightly inside,
sustenance they’d need to survive the foreign land.